Finding and receiving comfort

Two weeks ago, my community was rocked with a tragedy that no one expected: A perfectly healthy, happy, vibrant 15 month old tot named Levi fell victim to SIDS. He was my son's first friend, and child to some amazing people we have grown to love. His loss is felt so deeply, by so many, and has left nothing but questions resonating from the heart of those closest, why, how, and what now?

I've found my pain welling up over everyday activity, tears salting macaroni and cheese that we've brought to their home, or over dishes as I wash our baby's spoons. My bedtime prayers have turned from praying for my little one's development to, "be with his every breath, God." There has been grief, and fear, and sadness in my heart, and I've done everything I can to shield TJ from the bottomless sorrow we all feel.

But he knows something's wrong. He can tell in how I hold him tighter, let him sleep in my arms longer, check on him more often, and pray more fervently with far more tears. He can tell in the eyes of the nursery workers at church, who used to hold TJ and Levi simultaneously for nap time, and in the heaviness of their breath when they catch themselves remembering the two of them playing together. He can tell by the absence of Levi's laughter and babbles and the few words he used to emphatically shout. Something is most certainly wrong, even if he can't put his finger on it...

The other night, I was holding him, rocking him to sleep, and he took his pacifier out of his mouth and tried to put it into mine. He looked at me concerned, as if to say, "Here, Mama. You look like you need this." His source of comfort, his soothing coping mechanism, being offered to me, for the sadness in my eyes, and the fear in my arms. When I said, "No, baby, that's yours," he smiled, reassuring me that he was offering comfort, and that he if I wanted it, I could have it. This little person I had worked so hard to shield was trying to comfort me, and I could let him into my pain, or reject his efforts.

How often do we experience something in life that when God tries to comfort and heal us, we say, "no," because of how badly we hurt? Whether it's a traumatic event from the past, or the loss of a dear little one, it's easy to reject God's comfort because our pain is too deep or too wide. Maybe we think it's too soon to be comforted; that we don't want a hug, we want to be angry; we want to scream and cry and rail until our voice is broken and our body is weak. Maybe we think God isn't big enough for our pain, and we need to shield our theology from it because under the scrutiny and weight of How, Where and Why, our faith might crack in two. Maybe the sharp pain of our lives have turned to dull aches we've learned to live with, just as a part of who we are now. It is easy to remember the bitterness and gall, the brokenness and heartache, to the point where we declare all our splendor is gone, and all that we had hoped from the LORD. (Lamentations 3:18)

I have seen God meet my friends, and those closest to Levi's death in miraculous ways. I have seen peace and even joy on their tired, tear stained faces because they chose to let Him in when He extended an offer of comfort. The LORD says that He is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Ps 34:18) He calls Himself the Comforter because only He can touch some situations. In Lamentations, Jeremiah declared that only 1 thing made life even worth continuing, saying, "This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love, we are not consumed." That's all we've got right now, and the arms of Jesus are flung wide. Thankfully, they are wide enough to hold bottomless pain.